Cost of Living

Our pretty, pricey needlepoint pillows, purchased on Nantucket in 1997 (and we had no business even buying those!)

It began innocently enough. I was surfing the 'net one day, when my board wiped out at an ad for a house for sale in 'Sconset, Nantucket. Steve and I had traveled to that gorgeous island for our 20^th anniversary many years ago, and marvelled at the beauty of the little “cottages,” which in season are covered with climbing roses. I wondered what such a sublime tiny dwelling cost, so I clicked on the listing. $3 million!!!!! Alrighty then. Approximately $2,999,000 over our budget. 

That should have ended my perusals, but instead I became addicted to virtual house hunting. I checked the listings in our beloved Lewes so often that a realtor started reaching out to me directly, asking if he could show me some homes in the area. I don’t have the guts to tell the truth about my financial situation, so I’ve been kind of stringing him along, not saying “yes” but not saying “no” either. 

 

My late sister Mo used to take things a step further. She and a friend would doll themselves up and attend open house showings in Atlanta. She loved checking out the splendid abodes, even as she struggled to afford her modest apartment rent. There was always hope for a filthy rich future, and Maureen wanted to be ready when that happy day might dawn! 

 

A recent obsession for me has been a weekly feature in The New York Times called, appropriately, "The Hunt." Every Thursday they spotlight a prospective buyer, their budget, and three possible places from which they choose. The gimmick is that you don’t find out what they decided upon until you guess. The cost of just about every place in New York City is staggering. Does Jennie get a) the apartment with a kitchenette, one tiny bedroom, and a teensy backyard (which may or may not have a slight rat problem)? Or does she settle for b) that fixer-upper (sold as-is, as-is not including closets)? Perhaps the best choice is c) the fifth floor walkup? It’s really nice, but without an elevator I cannot imagine the torturous moving day and subsequent grocery lugging. 

I ALWAYS guess wrong, and shake my head at Jennie’s bad decision to sink a fortune into a place that would cost a fraction of the price were it just located in, say, West Boonieville. Jennie, Jennie, expand your horizons! I hear West Boonieville has a rustic charm, and you could afford an actual kitchen too!

 

In the end, I always console myself: I don’t have to move anywhere right now. I’m lucky enough to have a perfectly nice house, with a reasonable amount of stairs and a rat-free yard. But someday, when I become a bestselling author and/or win Powerball, I’m sure I’ll be tempted to trade up. What’ll it be? A wee little rose covered Nantucket cottage? Bayfront splendor in Lewes? Or will I be seduced by closet-less living in the Big Apple?

 

Guess I’ll cross that multimillion dollar bridge when I come to it.

Stuyvesant Town, NYC, my childhood home. You do NOT want to know what the rent is these days.

. 

Beetle (Bailey) Mania

When I had my kids, I looked forward so much to sharing my favorite books, shows, songs and movies with them. In my daydreams, they ADORED everything, and thereafter their bookshelves would be stacked with novels by Galsworthy and Dickens, and their playlists packed with the music of Pink Floyd and Yes (I didn’t say my tastes were consistent😉). 

In reality, while some of my faves did click, my enthusiasms were mostly met with puzzled indifference. I get it; I was neither a Glenn Miller big band, nor a Grace Metallious (Peyton Place) fangirl, even though Mom loved both. And now that Aiden and Peter are school aged, I’ve been resigned to the fact that they probably won’t cherish The Past’s Biggest Hits. 

 

So imagine my surprise when the guys became huge fans of a real throwback--Beetle Bailey comics! I mean, what? The strip has run since the 1950s, and while it’s still carried in newspapers today (drawn by Mort Walker’s sons now), I assumed its enduring popularity was centered on Boomer readers, and not on the under-10 set.

 

I confess that, as a youth, I merely skimmed Beetle and friends’ adventures in the Sunday papers, in favor of Blondie and Dagwood and (blush to disclose) Mary Worth. I couldn’t identify one bit with the army barracks setting, lazy Beetle, silly, obnoxious Sarge, smooth talking Killer, clueless Zero and blustering General Halftrack. I couldn’t have told you the difference between mess hall and the PX to save my life. 

 

My total disinterest extended to TV: Gomer Pyle USMC, F-Troop, and McHale’s Navy. Ours was not a military family for one thing; for another, I just didn’t get most of the jokes. Even now, with a son who was a Naval Academy grad and a  submarine officer, I still fail to see the knee-slapping humor of enlisted life. All that screaming! All that barking of orders! Fun times?

 

But the boys! They’re just crazy about Beetle Bailey! Sher and Yaj have hunted down collections of nearly all the decades’ strips, which are treasured additions to their home library. Some of the appeal is definitely the broad, easily-graspable characters, and the goofy plot lines. Beetle Bailey is also a harmless, battle-adjacent way to vicariously experience soldiers’ lives, an interest that has captivated children (especially of the male variety) for ages. 

 

Steve and I were always totally anti-war, with no toy weapons allowed for our offspring, yet Sher, Ev and Pat still found ways to make pretend guns: building them out of Legos, cutting them from cardboard, even gnawing their breakfast toast (!) into the correct shape and firing away at each other. 

 

In our current, conflict-ridden world, I do wish we wouldn’t glamorize military life, or play it for laughs. If everyone would just lay down their arms, and reach their human arms out to one another, we could have a peaceful planet at last. 

 

Until then, though, I guess it’s Fun with Beetle and Sarge around here.

Black Swans

 

Photo by Anthony on Pexels

"Rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno.” 

                                                –Juvenal, 2^nd century AD

 

(Translation: “A bird as rare upon the earth as a black swan.")

 

Ah, Juvenal! Our esteemed Roman writer friend was certain that black swans did not exist, mostly because no one in Europe had ever seen one. This belief continued unchallenged for centuries-until 1697, when a Dutch explorer in Australia encountered—wait for it—a black swan.

 

Nowadays, a “black swan” refers to a significant world event that happens without warning, but which in hindsight should have been predictable. Prime examples include World War One, 9/11, and the economic crash of 2008. All of these happenings caught the world flat-footed. All of these have since been picked apart and deemed “inevitable.”

 

To recap the criteria: rare occurrences, with immense impacts, that in retrospect are thought to have been predictable.

 

With those qualities in mind, here’s a selection from my personal bevy of black swans! 

 

MARRIAGE, 1977

If my Dad hadn’t taken a job in Atlanta, bringing the fam down South before my junior year of high school, Steve and I could not possibly have met, much less gotten quickly engaged (I was 17!) and married. The odds of Stevo bumping into me in Duxbury, MA otherwise were just about zero. Major impact on the world? Of course: Sheridan, Evan, Rose, Patrick and Julie! Should have been expected? Yes, if I had been aware of my incipient bipolar disorder, a hallmark symptom of which is “impulsive behavior.” 

 

TORN ROTATOR CUFF, 2013 

Those who know me recognize the rarity of this situation. I was doing a service project with my church youth group, and some misguided soul gave me a shovel and asked me to help make a dirt pile. The idea was to dig, then fling the gathered soil upwards as the dirt pile grew ever taller. My usual volunteer role was “sidelines cheerleader,” but that fateful day I attempted the dig/fling, only to feel immediate, searing pain. This “sports injury” had a huge impact on my world for many, many months, especially whenever I tried to put on a sweater—and the impact continues (I haven’t shoveled anything since, and never will). Rare? Life-changing? Inevitable? Yup!

 

DISAPPEARANCE OF MY FAVORITE YOGURT, 2024

During the past few months, I noticed that the star of my daily breakfast, Dannon Light and Fit Yogurt (vanilla) was getting harder to locate. At this writing, the only store where I can reliably still find it is Walmart, a place I RARELY frequent. I now travel there every few weeks to stock up. What is happening?? This is without question the best tasting yogurt ever created!!! How will I ever find something as delicious and artificially-sweetened as my magical elixir? Looking back, though, I notice that Dannon GREEK Yogurt has been making inroads for quite some time. It was bound to happen, I guess, but I wasn’t ready. “All Greek to me” is, sadly, my future.

 

I have other black swans I could share (NOT including that creepy Natalie Portman movie), but I’m at my 500 word limit, so I’ll leave you with this final thought:

 

Honk.

                                  

(Am I a) Coastal Grandma?

 

It's a coast. I'm a grandma. Perfect, no?

 

I’m not generally a trend-setter; instead, I’m usually a trend-ender (the second I hop on board, everyone else evacuates). But once in a blue moon, a trend emerges that catches me at just the perfect time—a trend so “me” that by rights I should be a veritable walking billboard for it.

 

Speaking of course about the “coastal grandma” phenomenon. I first heard about CGs from a swanky fashion mag, which ran a splashy feature a while back. I guess it was inevitable, with our aging, rather self-involved population, that grandparenting would become a chic and glamorous thing. I mean, Katie Couric is a grandma! So are Goldie Hawn, Jane Seymour, Catherine Deneuve and Gladys Knight (Gladys has 17 grandPips)! 

 

These lovely ladies of a certain age do not have the “look” sported by my two personal grandmas (a look which included big flowered aprons, sturdy orthopedic shoes, and purses filled with tissues and butterscotch Lifesavers). No, today’s grannies are impeccably attired with garb from Chicos, Coldwater Creek, Talbots and Ann Taylor. Many of them make judicious use of Botox and other fillers; some proudly go “au naturel” (these are mostly the winners of the genetic lottery). The goal is to appear to be 40 at age 70 (and, I suppose, to appear 80 at age 110), to be mistaken for the au pair when out and about with their grand-offspring.

 

So where does the “coastal” part come in?

 

Think: “I have a beach house.”

 

Think: “My beach house is NOT a one-week rental with a broken screen door, rusted outdoor shower stall and sandy floors. My beach house does NOT overlook Highway One, and is not 10 miles away from the beach.”

 

Think: “My beach house, which I own, is decorated to the hilt with pricey ceiling fans, elegant and matchy-matchy rattan and linen furniture, and has a deck overlooking the ocean. My beach house looks like no one has ever worn flip flops or a wet bathing suit in it.”

 

So, do these coastal grandmerès stay away from the actual beach? No, they do venture outdoors from time to time, but always protected by big sunhats, bigger sunglasses, and biggest globs of sunscreen. After paddleboarding or sailing their Sunfish, they recline at the shoreline to catch the sunset and sip a tasteful cocktail.

 

Do I sound envious? Well, I am, a bit. I would dearly love to treat my whole gang to dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, to trot around Europe with little Aiden and Peter. And it would be just “grand” to afford the top anti-aging serums, and to get highlights for my hair (my current “highlights” are the many gray streaks that always crop up between appointments).

 

As it is, I clearly don’t belong in a group where everyone looks just like Diane Keaton in First Wives Club. Alas, I am a “coastal grandma” in name only. Sigh.

 

Maybe I’ll launch an offshoot of the CG trend, one that truly reflects my reality.

 

I’ll call it “Costco Grandma.”

now THAT'S how a grandma looks, I used to think
(photo by Danie Franco on Unsplash)

Bells Are Winging

Pa, Nana and the Easter Goofballs

 

 

The boys had a terrific Easter, complete with two egg hunts (at church and in our backyard) and a big Easter basket. Mister E. Bunny was scarcely mentioned by either of our goody recipients. I think it’s because at their ages (Peter is 7 ½ and Aiden is almost 10), belief in a giant, candy distributing rabbit is becoming a bit strained. At least for the Seyfrieds, faith in the bun and the tooth fairy (we named ours Dentina) are the first to go, with Santa still hanging on for just a few more years. 

We had company for dinner, Ya-Jhu’s best friend Mike (who has become a good friend of ours). Mike is also a classical composer; his partner Don is a doctor. They live in center city Philly, and they own a house in the French countryside. Anyway, Mike and I were chatting about Easter in France, and he mentioned that over there, while there are sweets aplenty, the chocolate eggs are NOT distributed by some cwazy wabbit. Instead, the treats are brought by flying bells (les cloches volantes). Naturellement!

 

What? That’s nutty as the bunny! you may say.  Not so fast! The legend has it that, since church bells are silent between Maundy Thursday and early Easter morning, it means that the bells have sprouted wings and flown to Rome. They carry with them the grief of everyone who mourns Jesus' death. The bells then return from the Vatican to France Sunday dawn, now laden with candy, which they scatter around outdoors. After that task is completed, they peal joyously once more, a signal for the faithful flock to head to church to celebrate Christ’s Resurrection. 

 

I like this version for two reasons (or three, if you count that I’m a real Francophile in general).  For one, the whole shebang is triggered by actual happenings (church bells that stop ringing). I honestly have no clue why a huge cottontail suddenly hops into action over here. Then there’s the bells-as-grief-bearers part. It’s a melodious symbol that I find extremely comforting. I love the image of beautiful bells winging their way to Italy with their (our) burdens, and coming back Easter morning, light and singing and joyfully leaving chocolate for us. 

 

I doubt a fanciful story about flying bells would get much traction in the USA; we are much too conditioned to spread the word about Peter (not SAINT Peter) Rabbit. Also, Easter in America has a distinctly non-religious connotation, in addition to its spiritual significance, and I think that’s fine. Spring is a wonderful thing to celebrate, however we do it (Easter began, after all, as a pagan observance). I don’t need magical bunnies bearing calories, to rejoice at the welcome rebirth in nature. And I certainly don’t conflate my personal religious observance with egg hunts and the like—just as I don’t mix Santa up with Baby Jesus. I understand the difference, of course.

 

I hope that everyone had a lovely Easter (sacred, secular). Ooh, la la!

at Notre Dame April 2016 (before the fire)